


Trapped In A Mountain Ash Circle

by pinetreelady



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinetreelady/pseuds/pinetreelady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles traps Derek inside a circle of mountain ash to have a state of the relationship talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trapped In A Mountain Ash Circle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elisera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisera/gifts).



> One day I saw an adorable [drawing](http://banryeo.tumblr.com/post/59186686556) by banryeo on tumblr, and lielabell had [reblogged it](http://lielabell.tumblr.com/post/59588193254/banryeo-banryeo-one-of-my-discarded-ideas) with fantastic tags, which it turned out were written by [elisera](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elisera/pseuds/elisera) ... something about the drawing and the tags just struck me so hard, and so I wrote this fic.
> 
> Many thanks to elisera for general awesomeness and writing encouragement, and [blcwriter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter) for handholding, beta and encouragement on this fic in particular. Also thanks to verity for feedback.
> 
> Please do note that (as implied by the drawing and the title) one character traps another, restricting his movement until they have a conversation. It's intended to be funny and cute, in the context of the story, but it still involves limiting someone's bodily autonomy against his will.

(set in some nebulous future post-college) 

 

Stiles has been plotting this for weeks. He even enlisted Lydia’s help. He’s arguably more devious than she is, but she’s got more experience in handling relationship issues, seeing as how Stiles’ growth in that area has been stunted because he’s been hung up on an emotionally-constipated werewolf for most of his young adult life. 

They finally decide that it’s best if Stiles lies in wait in Derek’s place and greets him in the well-lit entryway (so Stiles doesn’t wind up bleeding or something, for taking Derek by surprise), mountain ash in hand. He and Lydia practically choreographed how Stiles should take Derek’s jacket, reach around him and then take him by the shoulder and spin him around, spreading mountain ash from his fist in a circle around them.

It works; despite having once again underestimated werewolf agility, Stiles manages to salvage the plan, drawing on his power of belief (he rolls his eyes thinking about it) to see a perfect mountain ash circle enclosing him and Derek in his front hall. Stiles sits down near the edge, watching as Derek slowly realizes what exactly has happened here.

“Stiles.” 

“Derek.”

“What the ever-loving hell are you up to this time?”

Stiles smiles gently, but doesn’t respond.

“Stiles, really, I don’t have time for this crap. Can you break this, please, and get the hell out of my house? It’s 11 o’clock at night, I’ve had a long-ass day, and I’m not up for this.”

Stiles continues to smile, settling on the floor and pulling his backpack onto his lap. He has snacks, and water. It could be a long night, but he’s prepared.

THREE WEEKS EARLIER

Stiles is fuming. This is the last straw, really. He’s lost count of the arguments with his father on the subject, but now? He came home to an official letter from the Senior Council of the Werewolf Association, Western United States Division, Greater California Chapter, addressed to him in an innocuous envelope. But inside, he’s addressed formally as “S. Stilinski, mate to Derek Hale, Alpha, Hale Pack, Beacon Hills, Northern California.”

(Werewolves do love their bureaucracy and florid language, it’s true). Really. How on earth has the most hidebound organization Stiles has ever had the privilege of dealing with managed to get him, Stiles, down in the records as Derek’s mate? What even. He looks at the letter again. Not only has he been addressed as such, the letter’s clearly bent on circumventing Derek’s stubbornness by appealing to Stiles’ presumably more logical side. He’d known that the WA had the Hale pack on their radar (Homeland Security could learn a few things about intense surveillance from werewolves, which. Huh. That gave Stiles an idea …) but he wasn’t at all sure how they’d arrived at this particular conclusion. He jerked his mind back into focus. This meant war. Derek was going DOWN.

FOUR WEEKS EARLIER

“Son, it’s the third time this week that Derek’s car’s been here overnight, and I possess enough observational skills to notice that he’s not sleeping on the couch.”

“Dad. How many times do I have to say this? Nothing’s going on between me and Derek, okay?”

The Sheriff scrubs a hand down his face. “Stiles.”

“Dad. There’s a lot of shit going down, we’ve been hitting the books hard, and we get into a groove, and … ”

“It’s the third time this week,” he repeats, holding up a hand to forestall Stiles’ protests, “And it’s only Tuesday.”

Stiles buries his face in his hands.

SIX WEEKS EARLIER

Scott and Allison corner him in the coffee shop. Sort of literally, since he’s in his favorite armchair in the nook in the back of the shop. They pull up chairs and flank the table in front of him, where his papers and laptop (and empty coffee cups) are strewn. 

Stiles looks up warily. “What do you guys want?”

They exchange a look. “Just to talk, Stiles.” Allison plops her butt into her chair and smiles winningly at Scott. “Why don’t you get us coffees, hon? And make Stiles’ a decaf, I can see him twitching from here.”

Scott nods and retreats toward the counter.

Stiles scowls. “Has it occurred to you that maybe I’m twitching because my friends just ambushed me in a coffee shop?”

“Paranoid, much? Stiles, we’re your friends. We’re here to say hello, to visit, to be friendly! It’s what friends do!”

Stiles doesn’t believe a word of it for all she looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “Mm-hm. What are you really doing here?”

“There are rumors in the hunting community, and I thought I’d go right to the source to scope out the truth.”  
Stiles blinks. He’d figured she’d have beat around the bush for another half hour or so before they got to why she was really here.

Scott approaches with their coffees. “How’s it going, sweetie?” he asks Allison.

“Great! Stiles is just about to tell me why we had to learn from my dad, via the Hunters’ Council, that the Hale pack’s been flagged because the Hale alpha’s taken a human mate. Name, one Stiles Stilinski.”

Stiles just shakes his head in resignation.

SEVEN WEEKS EARLIER

They’re all at Derek’s following a confrontation in the woods with whatever supernatural creature lost at cards last weekend. Well. Stiles doesn’t know that’s how the supernatural decides to come to Beacon Hills, but it’s his current working theory. Losing at gambling. Sounds as reasonable as anything else anyone can come up with.

So not the point, however. 

The point is, fucking somebody fucking screwed up their fucking take-out order again, so Derek’s grumpy because his lo mein doesn’t have extra pork and the General Tso’s chicken is too spicy for his sensitive werewolf palate. And there’s not enough fried rice, so they have to make do with steamed white rice. Stiles is pissed. “Jesus Christ, people, why is it so hard to get this right? There’s a damn post-it note on the front of the menu reminding you.”

Derek looks faintly mollified now that Stiles is acknowledging his trauma.

“Or we could just get you to place the order, Stilinski, seeing as how you’re the only one who can place Derek’s order to his satisfaction.”

Silence falls, and Stiles looks around the room, where everyone’s staring at him, either smirking or attempting to choke back laughter.

Stiles manfully ignores them all and wordlessly offers Derek some of his beef with broccoli. Derek smiles at him softly and forks some from Stiles’ container onto his plate. Stiles ignores the contented feeling in his chest as he returns the smile. 

NINE WEEKS EARLIER

Another week, another supernatural creature defeated, another round of takeout consumed, and now everyone’s crashed out in Derek’s living room where some movie no one’s particularly interested in plays on the TV. Stiles is curled up in the corner of the couch with his laptop, jotting down notes in the giant spreadsheet he’s been keeping for years now. Or. He blinks. 

“Would you guys say the wings on that thing were batlike, or what?” he asks absently, not even looking up. “Guys?” Getting no answer at all, he looks up. The room’s empty, the TV’s off, god, did he doze off again? He stretches his neck and freezes. The room’s not empty. Derek’s curled up on his side on the couch, sound asleep, face mashed against Stiles’ thigh and his hands clasping Stiles’ knee.

Stiles blinks hazily. Did he … did he dream asking everyone about that giant bat creature’s wings? Wait. Was there a giant bat creature, or was that last month? Shit, he’s tired. And god, Derek looks so sweet like this, peaceful. What. Ouch, his neck hurts. This couch is way more comfortable when he’s lying on it, instead of slumped sideways over the arm. He eases Derek’s head off his leg and onto a cushion, then moves to curl up with him. He got a little chilly, and Derek’s emitting heat like a radiator. He shifts a little closer, and Derek stirs, pressing his back against the back of the couch so there’s more room for Stiles. Mmm, comfy. 

Next thing he knows, it’s morning, there’s a blanket over him, and Derek’s nowhere to be found.

THREE MONTHS AGO

“Son, what the hell are you doing?”

Stiles looks up. Is this a trick question? “Um. Folding laundry?” 

“Folding WHOSE laundry? You haven’t done my laundry in years, and I guarantee those shirts aren’t yours.” 

Stiles watches as comprehension dawns in his dad’s eyes. He knows he’s been caught. “It’s not what it looks like, Dad.”

“Jesus, kid, you’re doing his freaking laundry, and you’re still telling me there’s nothing going on? Tell me, how often do you do Scott’s?” His eyes rake over the tidy piles on the couch. “Do you fold your own underwear that carefully? How about Isaac’s? I don’t think you ever even did Lydia’s laundry, and that’s saying something!”

Stiles shakes his head, mouth open, but his dad’s on a roll.

“I never thought I’d have to have a conversation like this with my son, about not doing shit like this to get someone’s attention, or gain their love, or what-have-you. Stiles, I swear to you, if you don’t have a talk with that guy, I’m going to do it, and I’m not inclined to be nice about it.”

“Dad, really, just …”

“Not gonna let it go, Stiles. If you’re doing his laundry, what are you getting out of this? Does he do yours, too? I sure as fuck hope this is an equal opportunity partnership. Your mother and I had a very healthy division of labor, and you sure as hell better, too, you hear me?”

“Oh my god, Dad! Really, don’t go there. I don’t know when you stopped understanding English, but nothing is going on between me and Derek. I’m doing him a favor, because there aren’t enough machines in his building, and the ones that are there have fucking residue of shitty soap in them that irritate his little werewolf nose, okay? He just went to the grocery store to get food for dinner, when the dryer buzzed, and I really don’t want to be having this discussion when he’s, like, lurking on the front porch, so can you stop, please?”

John shakes his head and stomps out of the room, continuing to mutter about equality under his breath.  
Twenty minutes later, the laundry’s all folded and neatly stacked in the basket for Derek to take home. Derek comes in loaded with groceries, and he and Stiles make chili, and cornbread, and a salad. Stiles’ dad eats with them and they all do the dishes and it’s sort of appallingly domestic. Stiles wouldn’t change a thing, despite the looks his dad keeps shooting his way. 

NOW

“Stiles, really, what are you doing?”

“I’m staging an intervention.”

Derek’s silent, incredulous.

“Derek. How clueless are you? Literally everyone we know, and some we don’t” -- Stiles thinks of the fricking WA, and whoever their mole is that leaked to the hunters -- “has confronted me about this in the last few weeks.”

Derek looks murderous. And disinclined to talk.

“And you can quit sending out silent wishes for a rescue. No one’s coming to help you. We’re having this talk, and we’re having it now.”

“Stiles,” Derek grinds out. “I don’t even know what you’re getting at.”

Stiles has run out of ways to adequately express his frustration. He can’t roll his eyes hard enough. This is a stratospheric level of frustration. The most he’s ever felt in his entire life, and that’s saying something.

But. Does Derek really not know what Stiles is getting at, here? Stiles stops to consider this. That’s sort of … game changing. Stiles regards him narrowly, trying to determine what’s going on in Derek’s brain. Is he hiding from it in embarrassment, or is he genuinely unaware? If it’s embarrassment, is it over his feelings, or a lack of them, or Stiles’ feelings? Fear of rejecting Stiles? Thinking that if he avoided it long enough, Stiles would just … drift away?

Okay, that way lies madness. Time for actual conversation.

“Derek. Have you had any correspondence from the WA lately?”

Derek looks shifty. “I …”

“How about from the liaison to the Hunters’ Council?”

Derek looks trapped. Ha. He is trapped. This is the whole reason for the trapping.

“Because I have. I had a letter from the WA and it was addressed in the strangest way.” He steals a look at Derek, whose eyes are fixed on his own hands. 

“Do you know how it was addressed, Derek?’ he asks carefully, keeping his tone free of any hint of mockery.

“And it made me wonder, where the hell did they get that idea?”

Derek doesn’t move.

“Derek. Please look at me.”

Derek raises his eyes to Stiles’, vulnerable. “I’m sorry, Stiles,” he says hoarsely. “I’m so, so sorry. I know it’s not what you wanted. I know none of this life is what you’ve wanted, you have always been capable of so much more, and you’re stuck with it, because of me, and my family, and now this … ”

This is the closest to full-fledged despair Stiles has ever seen Derek. Angry, yes, frustrated, hurt, even self-blaming, but despairing? Not so much. 

“Derek.” Stiles tries to make his tone as warm as he can. “Listen. I think … I think you’re missing a lot of things, here.”

Derek’s shaking his head. “I don’t know how you can get out of this, Stiles. Without, like, changing your name and moving away and even then … you’re stuck, they’ll find you, and it’s my fault, and …”

Stiles is .. kind of horrified. This isn’t how he saw this going at all. “Derek, god, stop it with the self-recrimination, already, would you? I have had lots of opportunities to leave, to get out, and I’ve never taken one. When I was away at college I pined, okay? I pined for Beacon Hills, and my dad, and supernatural nonsense, and Scott, and the pack and …” -- a certain stupidly attractive werewolf who doesn’t know how to use his words, he finishes silently. “Stop making this your fault, Jesus, it’s not, okay? I have made my own choices, I’m here because I want to be, and, I just. I want to be here with you, part of your pack, part of your life, in whatever capacity you want me.”

Derek gazes at him, lips parted slightly, but doesn’t say anything.

“Derek. I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be honest, okay? No hiding, no dodging, just … honesty, okay?’

Derek nods minutely, eyes not leaving Stiles’.

“Okay. How. How do you feel about me?” Stiles regards Derek just as steadily. Derek blinks.

Stiles ducks his head a little, looking at the floor. “Because here’s the thing, okay? I know how I feel about you, even if I kind of had to be beaten over the head with it. I know how you like your food, and what soap you use on your clothes. I know the way you like your t-shirts folded, and I’m tired of arguing with my dad that nothing’s going on between us. I’m tired of listening to the suggestive comments from the rest of the pack. It feels, I don’t know, it feels inevitable, it feels right, that this is where we are, but goddamn it, if I get to fall asleep with you on the couch and … fucking be your mate on paper, then, then, I want the whole package, okay? I want to kiss you, and to fuck you, and to be fucked, and to fall asleep next to you every damn night. If we’re so clearly linked already, to everyone who knows us, then I just feel like I’m missing out, and I want it all. With you. So. That’s why I pulled this shit, of trapping us here, because I don’t know if I can go on with it all unspoken. And I knew I had to do it in a way that would get your attention, and that I couldn’t escape from, either.”

“Wait, you’re stuck too?”

“That’s what you got out of all that, big guy?” Stiles sighs. “Yes, I’m stuck, too. I had Lydia help me combine the mountain ash with other stuff, so I couldn’t chicken out, either.”

“So, how do we get out?” Derek asks flatly.

Stiles smiles, trying not to reveal his caginess. He has a pretty good idea of what has to happen to break the circle. “Don’t worry about that, okay? We just … we have to …” he’s flailing, suddenly, not sure what to say to bring this conversation back around.

“Stiles, breathe.” Derek puts his hand on Stiles’ knee, and he steadies into the touch immediately. 

“The circle, it’ll break, okay, when we’ve said what we need to say.”

Derek blinks at him. “That’s some pretty subtle magic, Stiles.”

“Well, like I said, Lydia helped me … “

Cautiously Derek stretches his leg to put his foot near the edge of the circle, and pushes, but he’s still stuck. “I guess we have more to talk about, hm?”

Stiles nods uncertainly. He’s said what he has to say. He’s laid his feelings out there. It’s Derek’s turn. He also has a feeling that the circle might break for him, now, but he’s not sure.

“Did you … did you mean all those things you said?” Derek asks softly.

Stiles looks at him. He knows his poker face is shit at the best of times, and right now he’s counting on it. He wills Derek to read his feelings, his sincerity, on his face. “Yeah, I did. I mean them all.”

Derek just gazes at him, then leans forward, reaches for Stiles’ face, and brushes their mouths together. It’s the faintest of contact, but Stiles feels electrified, and he leans into Derek before he can pull away. They press together for long seconds, and Stiles pulls back the tiniest amount to just hit the right angle, puts his hand to Derek’s face, and then they’re really kissing. Stiles shivers a little as Derek reaches his hand up to run fingers through his hair. He feels lost in the softness of Derek’s mouth, the sweetness of this intimacy, the mounting arousal. Somehow in between kisses they maneuver so Stiles’ legs are over Derek’s, practically in his lap sideways.

Derek pulls away and rests his forehead against Stiles’, one hand still round the side of Stiles’ neck and the other at his hip. “I … I want all those things, too, Stiles, the kissing and the fucking and the waking up together, okay?” 

“Oh god,” Stiles absolutely does not whimper. This is actually happening.

“But …”

Stiles stiffens, worried, suddenly.

“Do you think that was enough to break this damn circle? If we have to fuck for the first time in a mountain ash circle on the floor I’ll never let you live it down.”

Stiles chokes back a laugh. “And I’m not gonna call Lydia to get us out of it, because then neither of us will ever live it down.” Tentatively he reaches for the outline just as Derek does, and sure enough, the barrier’s gone. Stiles laughs delightedly and bounces upright, pulling Derek with him. “Let’s get on with this, baby. We have a lot of lost time to make up for.” And Derek smiles.


End file.
